


Original works

by IceEckos12



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1: the rising sun based on devil went down to georgia, 2: fantasy from the inktober prompts, 3: one small step, 4: vehicle of the dead, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Will Tag as Necessary, ashton is a boring tired man, collection of original oneshots and works, dark so take note!!, flower lesbians, i love dimension traveling so it makes sense that i'd write an original work about it, johnny's sexuality: fiddle, technically a songfic, this royal family is a disaster, when your revenge kick doesn't go as planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21383452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: Collection of original works, mostly oneshots.1: The rising sun. Johnny won his bet against the devil and obtained the golden fiddle. This is what comes after.Based on the song 'Devil went down to Georgia', though listening to the original song is not required.2: Fantasy. Ari has really, truly had enough of this royal family.based off of an inktober prompt.3: one small step. Aya Redmond crashes into Ashton's carefully planned life, and all hell breaks loose.4: vehicle of the dead. She's been living with the voices of her parents in her ears ever since they died. She breathes grief into the wartorn land about her, and dreams of revenge.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. The Rising Sun

Johnny stares at the golden fiddle at his bare feet. He is pale and shaky, auburn eyes bright under the broad brim of his straw hat, and he is slowly but surely coming to terms with what he has just done. 

(He is a fiddle player, the same way a human breathes air, the same way a fish swims through water: naturally and inevitably. He’s been a fiddle player since he was five years old, scraping his knees on the trash heaps near his house. He’d found the instrument, wood old and scuffed, its bow a pile of scraps and horse hair beside it, and had felt something like a siren call at the sight. 

The fiddle was too big for him, his arms neither long enough nor strong enough to hold it comfortably beneath his chin. But he found another bow, and sanded and oiled the the instrument until it was smooth as silk to the touch, and he’s been lost ever since. 

Or found, perhaps.) 

He is a fiddle player; the whole town knows that he is a fiddle player. He plays as he walks the roads into town, plays as he nods a polite hello to the passersby, plays as he meanders through the farmers market for fresh vegetables, and only stops playing when the local policemen shout that he’s _ disturbing the peace with all that racket! _ But as sure as the sun rises in the east, when the police leave Johnny is playing again. 

The whole town knows that he is a fiddle player, and have tolerated their most musical child with the sort of exasperated patience that comes from the knowledge that they cannot get him to _ stop. _ But if they look at this golden fiddle, if they hear the sacrilegious moan of the devil’s tone rise from the strings, their exasperated patience will transform into something more sinister. Because there is no way this fiddle could be mistaken for anything than what it is, with its raucous howling and its mournful keening. 

If nothing else, Johnny is self-aware. He knows his flaws as intimately as he knows every imperfection in his fiddle, knows that he is far too rash and far too reckless for his own good. Case in point, taking a bet with the devil. 

But those flaws are also his strength. He does not waffle or sit on a decision which must be made. He knows that he is keeping this fiddle; he knows that if he does, he will be run out of this god-fearing town, perhaps worse. 

Johnny opens his sack, empty except for a couple of coins, some extra strings, and wood polish, and reverently places the golden fiddle inside. Then he kicks up his bare, cracked feet, chucks his chin with his wooden fiddle, places the bow to the strings, as familiar as an old lover, and heads West. 

* * *

A banjo player stops before Johnny as he plays in the street, his instrument tied across his back. They are of a kind, Johnny thinks, watching the dusty man from underneath his broad-brimmed hat. They look nothing alike, but they were both hewn from the same stone, then given an instrument to sing their heart’s song. 

The man, tall, skinny and dark, a slip of shadow, realizes it too. He shudders into movement again, but his path has changed; he folds himself into the crowd that surrounds Johnny with ease. 

Johnny pauses in between one sound and the next 

(and Johnny does not play tunes, he does not play the reels and folksongs that most fiddlers know. He has never taken lessons, could not tell you the difference between Galway Girl, Red is the Rose, and the Parting Glass. He plays what he likes, strings one sound to the next with the same casual grace as an artist painting an abstract picture, and it is both repels and draws people in equal measure.)

and meets the deep, black eyes of the stranger. He does not speak, merely gestures, calls a silent call that is more compelling than it has any right to be. 

The banjo player slowly pushes his way to the front, slinging his instrument from his shoulder as he walks, does not attempt to tune it because he knows it is still perfectly in tune from this morning. He stands beside Johnny, a short young man with freckled cheeks, bright auburn eyes, and a plain fiddle that sings as sinfully as any demon, and begins to play. 

Mack takes Johnny back to his home and introduces him to the other two members of his group; a tall man with tanned, leathery skin who plays a wicked bass, and a quiet percussionist with oddly hooded eyes, who’s rhythm is steady as a foundation of bedrock. 

They teach Johnny how to play with a group, how to build off another person’s sound like bricks being laid on a foundation. They teach him the jigs and reels he should’ve learned years ago, how they lead into and play off of one another. They teach him how to put the melodies bouncing around in his head to paper, and how to read music, for that matter. 

In return, Johnny is the best fiddle player that’s ever been for them. He draws crowds by the hundreds, packs every tavern they play in, lines their pockets with more money than they know what to do with. And when the mood is right, when the crowd is teetering on the edge of blackout drunkenness, Johnny will lift the golden fiddle from his sack and touch the bow to the strings. 

_ He plays like the devil, _ People say, shaking their heads, disbelieving that a sound like that could come from such a child, who never wears shoes and is perpetually covered in dirt. _ But with none of the temptation. _

Not that Johnny cares what they say. He is a fiddle player, and he will play the fiddle, regardless if his crowd likes it or not. 

* * *

It is dark in the tavern, and they have just finished playing. Johnny has just polished off his third free beer and is wandering around the dimly lit tables, absentmindedly pressing the calloused pads of his fingers to the strings of his fiddle. Mack, Jason, and Kai have all gathered at the bar, but Johnny is feeling oddly restless, unable to place his feet down. 

“Johnny,” A voice rumbles beside him, dark and familiar. 

Johnny turns to see a man, as beautiful as he’s ever seen, with thick eyebrows and high cheekbones and black hair that curls raucously about his ears. Johnny has never been aware of his plainness before, but now he is, and he smiles a sheepish grin. 

The man drums his fingers against the table, unreadable. “Sit.”

Johnny stills, and realizes where he’s heard this voice before. “Devil?”

_ “Sit,” _ The devil says, an order. Johnny does as he is bid, does not dare look away. 

Then the devil says, a snappish accusation, “You are not playing my fiddle.”

Johnny shrugs, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Wrong crowd.” 

And it had been. There had been a man in the second row who’d had frightful dreams of the war last night, of his dead friends, who had been staring down his breaking point. There had been a woman in the back whose husband had just died of some sickness that the doctor’s hadn’t been able to name. Johnny had gotten through two stanzas of The Parting Glass before the man had broken down into great, heaving sobs, had gotten through one more before the woman had to leave. It had been the good kind of pain for the both of them, though, the soulful kind that every human needs to feel, and the kind only his wooden fiddle could produce.

The devil does not understand this, though. He sneers. “Wrong crowd? As though my fiddle could not play for _ any _crowd.”

Johnny’s fingers tremble, even as they continue to press against the fingerboard. “Wrong crowd.”

The devil is quiet for a few maddening seconds, his eyes gold like the gleam of sun off desert sands. Then he says, “I did not give you my fiddle so you could sit on it.”

And Johnny is aware of his flaws; he is aware of his rash and reckless behavior, and how it will get him one day. He wonders if that day is now when he says, “Come to the tavern in three days, if you like. I’ll play your fiddle then.”

There is a moment of shocked silence, those pale, bloodless lips parted in surprise, golden eyes wide. Then there is a sound like rocks being ground together, which grows until it’s the gravelly slide of boulders down a mountain. Johnny does not realize it is laughter until he sees the devil’s wide grin. 

“Care to make a bet?” The devil asks, sly as a fox and twice as mischievous. “Make another bet with the devil, boy. You’ve beat me once. Let’s have another, Johnny.”

“Sure,” Johnny says agreeably, without pause. Because he gets it, he does. If he gave away his precious fiddle

(When he was thirteen he finally hit his growth spurt, and he grew and grew and grew, but he was not happy about it. His fiddle was not a very large fiddle, made for a person of average height, and if he grew much larger playing would become cramped and uncomfortable, and then he would be forced to get a larger one. And he did not want that; he had rescued this fiddle from the trash heaps, had sanded it and polished it and toiled over it until it was a piece of his very soul.

He did not have much use for any gods—they had never done him much good—but he prayed for the first time, then. That he would not grow tall, that he would remain short enough for his fiddle to be comfortable. 

Ever since that time, when his growth had abruptly halted in its tracks, Johnny has made sure to be respectful of the holy men, and never, ever plays the golden fiddle when he spies them in the room.)

then he would be furious to find out that the person he gave it to was not playing it. It is the devil’s right. 

The devil pauses for a second, blinks, then continues. “I’ll come in three days. If you do not give me a good show, then I’ll have your soul.”

Johnny thinks about that, then nods solemnly. “Alright. And if I give you a good show, you have to play with us.”

The silence is so profound, so absolute that one could hear a pin drop. Whatever the devil had been expecting in recompense, that obviously had not been it. “You want me to…_ play _ with you?”

“You’re good. Almost as good as me.” Johnny says honestly, and raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you ever wanted to play with someone else before? It’s fun.”

“Fun,” The devil says, rolling the word around in his mouth like he’s just tried a new food and is unsure of the flavor. Then his expression clears and he says, dismissive, “Whatever. I’ll be back for your soul in three days.” 

Johnny smirks back, and blinks. When he opens his eyes, the seat before him is empty. 

* * *

Let us speak of the golden fiddle. 

Let us speak of its golden body, which is shaped so naturally and fluidly that it seems to have been formed from a molten pool, so liquid that it looks like it could melt back down again at any second. Harps of gold would not be so fine, heavy rings with gaudy jewels not nearly so opulent. Gold water off of old stones, ancient and tangible as the earth.

Let us speak of white-gold strings, so pale they are almost translucent and can only truly be seen in darkness, strings which do not so much as resonate as they do shimmer against the bow. The strings of the fiddle are normally made from catgut, sheep’s intestines, stretched, dried and twisted into a shape which is capable of producing song. The strings of this fiddle are not catgut, are no more catgut than quartz is diamond, twisted from the land from whence the devil came, hot and dry and bathed in fire. 

Let us speak of the sound, of the siren’s call which it produces, a demanding shriek which the human mind cannot truly comprehend. If the listener were a demon, or an angel, or anything but a human, they would be able to hear the layering of inhuman tones, the melodies of far off worlds and stories long lost to time. But a human cannot understand it, so a human cannot hear it, and instead finds themselves lost in the sound. When they finally return to themselves they have no memory of what was played, only the wistful feeling left behind, that they have lost something irreplaceable and must follow it to its source.

In Johnny’s hands, the fiddle’s body is obedient and solid. The strings shimmer like the petals of an African violet, and the sound that they emit is loud and raucous and soulful and _ human _, and the listeners take a little piece of that sound home with them. Well, take is perhaps not the correct word. Johnny gives it to them freely, without strings attached, lets them cradle it close to their hearts. They hear it in their dreams, make a space for it in their memories to look back on when they’re feeling wistful and lonesome. 

_ He plays like the devil, _ they say, knowing it to be true but unable to explain why. _ But with none of the temptation. _

* * *

The devil does not get Johnny’s soul that day.

Johnny finds him after the performance, splayed in his chair, looking as dazed as confused as the rest of the crowd. He grins and says, “Guess you’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

The devil looks up at him, not angry in a furious way, but angry in a confused sort of way, the way a person who does not know what to do with an emotion turns it into something they can understand. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Johnny asks, mild but not meek. 

“That is not my fiddle, I know how it plays,” He snarls, rising to his feet. Shadows larger than they should be sink into the wood behind him, suggesting the outline of wings. “That has—it—”

The devil is trying to say,_ it has a soul, _ although he does not know it. He has never had a soul, has never loved his fiddle. It had been a necessary tool, a way to bring people to him, but he has never played simply because he wanted to. 

Johnny has never been anything but a man who loves to play the fiddle, who _ lives _ to play the fiddle, who loves every broken, beautiful sound that it plays. He does not know how to do it any other way. And that is why the golden fiddle sounds as it does, all of the inhuman ringing side-by-side with the all-too-human soul of a fiddle player. All of the beauty but none of the siren’s call. All of temptation with none of the strings attached. 

But neither of them know this, and even if they did, they could not put it in words. So Johnny only shrugs and says, “You’ll join us tomorrow, then?”

A deal is a deal, and the devil does not renege upon his. So after a moment of furious, confused silence, the devil nods. 

* * *

The devil slips, unnoticed, into the band that day, and decides not to leave. 

Mack, Jason, and Kai either do not notice the otherworldliness of the new man, or do not care enough to point it out. Either way, when Johnny hands the devil a fiddle (and it differs depending on the day, depending on the mood of the crowd, which one the devil plays and which one Johnny plays) they shrug and continue playing. They are musicians before they are moral people, and this new musician is almost as good as Johnny, so why ask questions?

The devil does not come every day—he is a busy man, after all—but when he does, the whole town knows about it. His and Johnny’s duets are legendary, the kind that can make a grown man weep like a baby, or a crotchety crone jump up and dance. 

The devil could not say why he returns, only knows that he is looking for something, has been looking for something since that first day when Johnny made the golden fiddle sing. And more and more he finds it enjoyable to play with the young man with auburn eyes and bare feet and a soul made of polished wood and catgut. 

It is this feeling that makes him look at Johnny one day, several years after their first meeting. It is this feeling which makes him take in the wrinkles about Johnny’s eyes, the spots of gray amongst his sandy hair, and finally parse out what it means. It is what makes him frown, deep and unhappy, because that is simply not acceptable. 

“You know,” The devil says carefully, “The fiddle is the devil’s instrument.”

“Of course,” Johnny says agreeably, his ankles folded on top of one another, plucking a reel with long, clever fingers. He does not argue with the devil, has never argued with him, just listened to his infernal opinions and nodded agreeably. Not_ in _agreement, just agreeing that they are there and exist in some capacity. 

The devil frowns. “They don’t let you play the fiddle in heaven.”

Johnny scoffs at that, unconcerned. “I’ve been playing the fiddle for as long as I’ve been alive, devil. I don’t think I’m going to heaven after this.”

The devil thinks about a careful respect for the holy men that cross the threshold, and about a man who will sometimes sit, though he prefers standing when fiddling, so that the small, wide-eyed children can crawl into his lap and feel every resonant tone in their breasts. He thinks about men who find bright, innocent joy in music, who play selflessly and selfishly as only a musician can. 

He says, uncharacteristically gentle, “Playing the fiddle is not a sin.”

Johnny pauses for a second, his clever fingers frozen above the strings, and then starts up again. The tone of the plucking is maudlin now, though, so the devil knows that Johnny is thinking.

“I see,” He says, neutral and unhappy. 

“Fiddlers are welcome in hell, though.” The devil adds as though it is an afterthought. “And someone who can fiddle better than the devil himself! _ Well. _ He might as well be a prince.”

“A prince,” Johnny repeats dubiously. 

“Yes,” The devil says, so earnest that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. And then, “A prince who could play fiddle all day long. However long he wanted, with whoever he wanted.”

Tempting. Like the golden fiddle when Johnny was not playing it, like the extended hand of a familiar lover. He knows exactly who this is, exactly what this creature is doing. He also knows that the devil does not lie, and he always keeps his promises. 

More than that, he knows the extent of his flaws, knows that he is reckless and rash. 

And finally, he knows that he is a fiddle player. 

“Devil,” Johnny says, his words like thick drops of rain just beginning to fall. “I’d like to make a bet with you.”

The devil’s eyes light up. He knows he’s won, that he will have this fiddler’s soul and his clever fingers and his sanded, polished wood fiddle. And he also knows that Johnny faces him with eyes wide open, that he knows what this means, and that he and the devil will play the fiddle together until the end of time, and even beyond that. 

“If I win, you get my soul.” The fiddler says, chucking his chin with the fiddle, grinning his wide, cracked grin under bright auburn eyes. “If I lose, you can keep my fiddle.”

The devil laughs, the grinding of boulders down a mountain, the cracking of the tectonic plates as they rub against one another. He has found what he is looking for: a soul to call his own, who plays his instrument like a human breathes air and a fish swims through water. Who has made human a fiddle of gold, has given meaning to a sound which he’d previously thought could only be appreciated by the heavenly host, or the crowds of the damned. 

And he places his fiddle beneath his chin, and prepares to lose one 

last 

time.


	2. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by an inktober prompt. Might continue writing about this dumb royal family, ive become ATTACHED

“Ari!” 

Ari wiped the sweat and dirt from her brow and looked up, shading the sun from her eyes with one hand. “Letitia? Is that you?”

Who else could it be? Princess Letitia, second in line to the throne and eldest daughter of the King and Queen, was hanging over the stone garden wall with a mischievous grin on her face. A few dark curls escaped from her vibrant head scarf, framing her square face. 

“Who other but me?” Letitia said cheerfully, then swung her legs over the wall and dropped to the other side. Even though Ari knew that she’d been in court since early this morning the princess was wearing a pair of humble brown trousers and a loose blouse. Letitia had always preferred menswear over her skirts and dresses, and the king and queen were not above indulging her.

Ari looked over Letitia’s shoulder, then let out a fond, exasperated sigh. “I see you’re missing your faithful bodyguard. Calista will have your head if she finds you.”

Letitia dusted off her trousers and tucked her hair back into place. “Calista is boring.” Then, with the same haughty demeanor that had given her such a reputation as a spoiled troublemaker, “And you wouldn’t tell her, would you?”

It was less of a question and more of a statement. Ari was glad that her blushes tended not to show on her face, and rolled her eyes. Everyone knew that Princess Letitia was bad news, a rambunctious troublemaker who stole the heart of any man and woman who looked at her. When Ari had first been hired on as the palace gardner almost five years ago, people had practically fallen over each other to tell her  _ sweet, innocent thing like you, do not talk to Princess Letitia!  _

Unfortunately, Ari was never good at heeding advice when she could sate her curiosity instead. 

Unfortunately, all the rumors were true. 

“No, I suppose not.” Ari said. “Come, sit on the bench and tell me all about the tedious men and women of the court.”

Letitia didn’t need an invitation. She flopped onto the bench with a dramatic sigh, her feet pushed out in front of her like a child’s. “Oh, you would not  _ believe  _ it Ari. Madame Visconte was in fine form, she still thinks that her wretch of a daughter is good enough for Rakim.”

Ari snorted quietly. Everyone knew that Prince Rakim, oldest child, oldest son, and heir apparent had set his sights on a pauper from Theros. They would have been engaged already had the woman’s mother not gotten sick with consumption, delaying her journey to the capital. 

“I told her what a delusional bat she was being—” Ari had long since gotten used to Letitia’s brutal sort of honesty, but that did not stop her from choking on nothing at the thought of the princess calling the Madame Visconte a ‘delusional bat’, “—but she just laughed at me!”

“You’ve become too predictable,” Ari said, nudging her shoulder gently. “Telling people they’re sutpid was shocking when you were twelve. Word’s gotten around, dear.”

“I suppose,” Letitia said, pouting. “What should I do then? I can’t be losing my touch. Got to keep them on their toes, you know.”

“You could try being well-behaved,” Ari said, hiding a smirk behind her hand. “They’ll  _ never  _ see that one coming.”

Letitia fell backward onto the bench, clutching her heart. “Never!”

They were quiet for a second. The sun was high overhead but the air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of honeysuckle, jasmine, citrus, and the musky scent of mulch. Ari’s plain blue skirt was hiked above her knees, but she felt no embarrassment, not around Letitia. 

“Ari,” Letitia said quietly, drawing Ari out of her musings. 

“Hm?” Ari asked.

“Show me how the flowers grow, would you?” 

Ari hesitated for a second, then smiled indulgently. “Of course, Princess.”

Ari took a deep breath, stood, and lifted her hands. Earth magic pulsed around her, and suddenly the scent of mulch and earth and  _ life  _ intensified, weaving through the fabric of her being. She felt her curls begin to drift upward, and knew her eyes were glowing a bright, unnatural green. 

And then she closed her hands into fists and  _ yanked.  _

Flowers burst from the Earth, pink and purple geraniums, baby blue cornflowers, puffy wheat celosia, sunflowers that opened to the sun. Raucous scents bloomed from all around them, vines overtaking trellis’s in seconds, the path overgrown like some deep forest. 

Breathing hard, Ari looked back over her shoulder at the princess, who was watching her with wide, velvet-brown eyes. 

“Beautiful,” Letitia whispered. 

* * *

“She loves  _ you _ , you know,” Neo told her matter of factly. 

Ari let out a huff of annoyance and blew a strand of hair away from her face. She was still clearing vines from the trail from her little showing off for Letitia. Sometimes she wished she was less of a pushover where the princess was concerned. “What is it with you royals invading my garden?”

Neo, the second youngest child and the third son, let out an unamused snort and rolled his eyes. “It’s not  _ invading.  _ We can go wherever we like. This is the  _ royal  _ garden.”

“Is that what you told Rolfe before you kissed him?” Ari said without looking up. She wasn’t feeling particularly charitable right now. Rumor was that the king was having Letitia meet another suitor, the duchess of the Southern keep. She was supposedly very pretty, and very charming. Ari was none of those things, had been pauper before the king had hired her to the palace garden after her parents died of the plague. 

Neo spluttered. “How did you—”

Ari felt a little bad for lashing out. Neo was a pompous git, but he didn’t deserve her jealousy-fueled bad mood. “Dalia  _ and  _ Rakim have both had  _ rendez-vous _ in the rose bushes. Pick somewhere a little more comfortable next time, would you? Preferably somewhere with less thorns.”

Neo was quiet for a second, and Ari thought that that might be it, the prince had decided to pick his battles and had left. But then there was the crunch of dirt beneath careful feet, and Neo said, “I was being serious, though. You know if you showed any sort of interest she’d pledge herself to you in a heartbeat.”

Ari scowled and jammed the trowel a little deeper into the earth. A vine snapped. “You don’t know that.”

“You think Lettie shows interest in just anyone?” Neo scoffed. “You’re not that much of an idiot. Please.”

Ari winced. Letitia hated being called Lettie, said it reminded her too much of being a snaggle-toothed child trailing in Rakim’s footsteps. “Why are you here, Ne—Prince Neo? You can’t just be here about my love life.”

Neo was quiet for a moment, then another, until the silence drew out for so long that Ari looked up. The prince was blushing furiously, examining the ground between his shoes with an interested expression. “I—Lettie is being insufferable.”

Oh, no. There was more to it than that. 

“Like you said,” Ari said dryly, setting the trowel between her knees and sitting up. “I’m not that much of an idiot. You’re trying to give me advice, which means you want a favor. Try again.”

“Would you cover for me?” Neo blurted. “I want to—I want to bring Rolfe here for—for a picnic. Would you cover for me?”

“Cover for what?”

Ari and Neo jumped at the new voice. Ari flushed an immediate, hot red when she realized that it was Letitia, still in her gaudy court wear for once. She was gorgeous of course, but she tugged uncomfortably at the high collar, like she very much would like to rip it off. 

Ari turned away and busied herself with the vines again. “Fine,” She told Neo. “Deal.”

“Right,” Neo said, and bolted. 

“Hey!” Letitia shouted after her younger brother. “Neo—get back here!”

But Neo was long gone. Letitia had stopped being able to keep up with the light-boned boy when she’d turned fourteen. She tramped back over to Ari in a furious huff, tearing at her skirts. “What was that all about?”

“N-Nothing,” Ari was  _ not  _ having this conversation with Letitia. “How did the meeting go?”

“Ari,” Letitia said warningly, putting her hands on her hips and looming. 

Ari rubbed at her face. “It’s to do with Rolfe.”

Letitia looked at her for a second, disbelieving, before letting out an exasperated sigh and throwing her hands into the air. “Fine, then! You and Neo can keep your stupid secrets. I don’t want any part of them.”

Ari blinked at the real frustration in Letitia’s voice. “Letitia?”

Letitia let out a huff and dropped onto the bench, wrapping her arms about herself like she was cold. She looked genuinely miserable, Ari realized guiltily. 

She slowly approached and sat down next to the princess. “Did it go that badly?”

“The duchess is fine,” Letitia spat. “Fine and perfectly  _ vapid. _ My uncles and aunts love her, of course.”

“Oh,” Ari said awkwardly. On impulse, she reached over and took the princess’s hand in both of her own, squeezing it gently. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Letitia looked at their joined hands blankly for a second, and Ari almost pulled away—but then the princess smiled, quiet and wan, and squeezed. “It’s alright.” She said tiredly. “Father and mother don’t really care who I marry, so they weren’t too disappointed when I turned the duchess down.”

Guilty relief rushed through Ari. “O-Oh. That’s...good.”

They were quiet for a second. 

“Want me to make the flowers grow?” Ari offered. 

“Oh, would you?” Letitia breathed out. Ari felt her chest clench; Letitia had never hesitated to ask her to use her magic before. She must really have been in a terrible mood. 

Ari nodded and lifted her hand.  _ Something simple this time,  _ she told herself. 

The clematis slowly reached from the ground around the bench and began climbing up Ari’s body, over her back and across her shoulders, flowering through her hair like a crown. The tiny white blooms danced in the evening wind, mesmerizing as a ballet dancer in flight. 

Letitia let out a quiet, contented sigh and leaned her head against Ari’s shoulder. 

The warmth lingered long after Letitia finally left.

* * *

“Do you ever imagine a life beyond this palace?” Letitia asked, reaching toward the sky. 

Ari laughed, quiet and indulgent. “Letitia, you know I lived in the lower district before I came to work here.”

“Oh,” Letitia said, faintly embarrassed. “I—right. Of course.”

Then, as though admitting some deep secret, “Sometimes I forget you haven’t always been here.”

Ari blushed and looked away, pressing her hand to her warm cheek. Her blushes were never that obvious, but they were more frequent than she would like. 

“Why do you always look away when you’re embarrassed?” Letitia asked impatiently, taking Ari’s wrist and pulling her around again. “You’re cute when you blush. Don’t hide it.”

“Letitia!” Ari gasped, scandalized, turning an even brighter shade of red. 

“What?” Letitia said defiantly, tilting her nose upward. “I said it. I won’t take it back.”

Ari buried her face into her hands, too mortified to even attempt a response to that. This wasn’t happening. They’re not acknowledging this nebulous thing between them.  _ This wasn’t happening. _

“...is it so bad?” Letitia asked, suddenly tentative, suddenly hesitant. “That I think you’re cute?”

“No!” Ari wheezed, batting at Letitia’s arm uselessly. “It’s fine! This is fine.”

Letitia let out a laugh, but there was a palpable note of relief and hysteria in it. 

Then she said, “Ari, are the flowers supposed to be doing that?”

Ari’s head jerked up, and she finally got a look at what her rampant magic was doing. Plants were growing, blooming, then dying a second later; fat fruit ripened and then dropped to the ground in rhythmic thuds. The floral scent intensified and rotted, intensified and rotted. 

Ari waved her hand, and the magic finally stopped. 

“No,” She said, even more mortified than before, if that was possible. “They’re not supposed to do that.”

Letitia let out a loud, wondering laugh, and then tentative, warm fingers laced through hers. Ari clutched at them desperately, biting back a wide grin. 

Letitia pinched Ari’s chin, her grin softening. “What have I told you about hiding?”


	3. one small step

Ashton was a simple man of simple taste. 

He wore slightly frumpy but comfortable clothes and brown loafers that made him look twenty years older than he actually was. He read mainstream books that he finished in an average amount of time and then promptly forgot about ever having read them. He liked dogs slightly more than he liked cats, neither of which he had any desire to own because they both shed. 

He got up at seven and went to bed at eleven, and got a decent amount of sleep every in between. He never traveled, hadn’t taken a day off of work in almost ten years, and seemed content despite all these facts. 

Ashton was what he liked to think of as ‘comfortable’. His few friends lovingly referred to him as ‘boring’. 

However Ashton did have one interesting thing about him, not that he shared it with anyone else. He had an extremely wild imagination, one so vivid that he hardly felt the need to leave his home at all. Why would he need to travel when he could conjure visions of alien planets and dramatic adventures inside his very own head? 

So it was only natural that the most extraordinary, the most exciting thing to ever happen in the world happened to the man who desired it least. 

It happened like this:

Ashton waved goodbye to Maria in the next cubicle, a sweet woman who wasn’t too assertive or intimidating and therefore a person that he liked very much. (Ashton had a deep fear of confrontation, which was probably why he was known as a pushover). He gathered up his stack of papers, poured them into his plain black briefcase, and wrapped a red scarf around his neck before finally heading out the door. 

It was late October, so the cold wind bit into Ashton’s skin and turned his cheeks red as he walked.  _ It’s not that cold,  _ He thought mildly, burying his nose into the fabric around his neck.  _ I’ll just take a warm shower when I get home and drink some hot tea. That will be nice.  _

His eyes grew distant as his imagination began to run with that image.  _ A steaming cup of green tea with a spoonful of honey, maybe the next chapter of that mystery he’d started a few days ago…. _ his fingers twitched around his briefcase, the phantom sensation of heated porcelain and thick pages vivid on his skin.  _ Just another block… _

Ashton sighed in relief at the sight of his apartment building, hurrying his pace in anticipation of heating (his most favorite modern invention was the invention of indoor temperature regulation). 

_ Crash! _

Ashton nearly lept out of his own skin, recoiling away from the front door and freezing in place. It wasn’t unusual to hear the trash cans getting knocked over—there were cats and wild animals all throughout the city, after all—but not with as much force as he had just heard. It had sounded as though someone had thrown the bins against the wall with a cannon. 

After a couple of seconds of silence Ashton finally relaxed, crisis apparently averted. However a new problem presented itself: should he go investigate the sound?

He dithered on the doorstep for a second, running through his options in his head. 

On one hand, Ashton had never participated in sports or martial arts, and as such had no way to defend himself if the source of the loud noise had nefarious intentions. And what if it was an animal that had rabies or something? It really wasn’t any of his business. He should call his sister Rachel, who had a black belt in Krav Maga and used to beat him up on the daily when they were kids. Or maybe Reggie, his friend from college who was extremely intelligent and had been the only reason Ashton had passed Business Math. 

On the other hand, Ashton was a  _ very boring man.  _ He couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything remotely interesting, mental escapades not included. 

He wasn’t usually reckless, but what the hell. 

Ashton set his briefcase by his side and rolled his scarf into a meticulous ball, before putting that down too. Then he edged around the side of the building, hugging the wall close to his chest as he moved. Careful not to make any noise, Ashton poked his head around the side of the building. 

At first he didn’t see anything, just the muted greys and browns of the alleyway and the overgrown concrete path that led around to the back of the complex. As he kept watching however he began to take in some details; halfway down the path the plastic trash bins had indeed been tossed against the wall and were lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. 

Oddly enough there were scorch marks on the brick wall where they had been standing. Ashton furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side. 

And then he caught sight of the girl curled up against the wall. 

Ashton immediately darted out from behind the building and approached her, his heart in his throat. She was young, about fifteen, with smooth skin and long black hair that had been pulled into neat, tight braids. Blood oozed from a cut on her forehead, and Ashton winced at the sight of it, wishing that he had his medical kit on him. 

Then he paused. 

Now that he was really looking at her, the girl was stranger than he’d originally assumed. The clothes that he’d originally mistaken for a black T-shirt and black leggings were actually a full bodysuit. The jacket she wore was a bomber jacket, but it was covered in a multitude of strange patches and symbols, most of which he didn’t recognize. At her waist was a sturdy black belt filled with an assortment of unfamiliar objects. 

But more than that, the scorch marks on the wall all originated from where she was sitting. 

Ashton wasn’t too familiar with taking care of children, but he was pretty sure they didn’t wear black bodysuits. Was she some sort of spy? She looked like a spy. Or, she looked like a spy from all the Hollywood movies. 

Then the girl let out a low, pained groan, and Ashton shook his thoughts from his head. It didn’t matter if she was some sort of government agent or a vigilante or whatever, she was an injured girl with a possible concussion. 

“Hey, kid.” Ashton said as he crouched down in front of her, his hands hovering above her arms. “Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Wha…?” The girl muttered, shifting a little. She blinked, and Ashton caught sight of dazed, flickering eyes. 

Ashton had taken a course on concussions in college. He knew the symptoms. 

“Okay, I’m calling the hospital.” Ashton muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket. “You have a concussion.” 

Before he could even enter his password however, a lightning quick hand reached out and gripped his wrist tightly. When he looked up the girl’s gaze was suddenly sharp and aware, a stark change from just moments before. 

Ashton froze. 

“No hospital,” She hissed. 

“What—but—” Ashton suddenly remembered that he had personal space issues and tried to yank his arm away. Her grip was too strong. “I have to call the hospital. You’re hurt.”

The girl just shook her head, not losing a drop of intensity. “No. Hospital.” 

Ashton lifted the hand not trapped in a universal sign of surrender. “Alright, fine. No hospital.” He paused and said, trepidation creeping into his voice, “Can I...can I have my hand back?” 

Surprise flashed across the girl’s face before she released him. Ashton pulled his hand to his chest and subtly tried to rub circulation back into his numb appendage, watching her warily as he did so. This really hadn’t gone like he’d wanted it to, and he was beginning to regret investigating the strange noise. See if he ever did it again. 

The girl held his gaze for a second, but then pain flashed across her face and she squeezed her eyes shut, digging her fingers into her temple. 

Now that Ashton was closer he could see faint white scars pitting her face, telling an interesting but tumultuous backstory. Was she in a gang? Or maybe she really was a spy. 

He reined in his imagination before it could run away from him, though. Now really wasn’t the time. 

Now that emergency services were off the table, Ashton wasn’t sure what he should do. He settled back on his heels to take some of the strain off of his calves and looked up and down the alleyway, questions about the circumstances of this strange event rearing up in his mind once more. The girl didn’t say anything, just watched his movements with her dark, wary eyes. 

After a couple moments of deliberation he decided on, “Do you need to call someone?” 

“No.” Was the almost immediate response. 

“Oh,” Ashton muttered awkwardly. This was beginning to feel more and more like one of those awful socials that the office liked to hold. He looked longingly toward the front of the building, then back at the girl. “...Is there anything I can do?”

The girl let out a low, deep sigh that said she was just as finished with the situation as he was. Then she used the wall to push herself laboriously to her feet, gritting her teeth as she did so. 

Once she was fully upright she said, “As you can see, I am perfectly fine.” 

Then she tried to step away from the wall. 

Ashton had about a two second warning before the girl’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she began an uncontrolled topple toward the ground. He lunged for the belt at her waist and barely managed to haul her upright in time, his skin crawling at the feeling of someone so far into his personal space. 

“Yeah, you look fine to me.” Ashton said, his voice a pitch higher than normal. 

The girl pushed away from him and let out another groan, looking as though it were taking all her energy to stay standing. She lifted a hand to her forehead, then brought it to her face so she could examine the blood shining against it. After a moment the girl said, in a tone slightly more prim than the situation deserved, “I may have been underestimating my injury.”

Ashton almost laughed at that. Almost. 

“Listen,” He said, the words coming out of his mouth before he even fully realized the thought. “My apartment is upstairs. I have a med kit in the bathroom. You can...you can get cleaned up and go on your way.”

_ What are you doing?  _ He wanted to scream at himself. This had gone well beyond  _ reckless  _ and was now comfortably hovering in the  _ idiocy  _ range. 

It was too late to take the words back, however. 

The girl gave him a sharp, searching look. For a second that lightning quick focus from earlier entered her eyes, making them almost glow with vitality. 

Then she let out a low, bone deep sigh. 

“If you would be so kind,” She muttered, already sounding as though she was regretting it. 

“Excellent.” Ashton muttered, already wringing his hands together at the thought of someone entering his space. 

“What’s your name?” 

Ashton stopped twisting his fingers into knots. “H-Huh?”

The girl let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes, though judging by the way she winced she immediately regretted the action. “Your  _ name.  _ I think we should at least introduce ourselves before you invite me into your home.”

“Oh!” Ashton gingerly extended his hand. “My name is Ashton McCalister. It’s nice to meet you.”

To his surprise the girl’s grip was surprisingly gentle, almost completely at odds with her forceful personality. She pumped his arm up and down in one succinct movement and said, 

“Hello Ashton McCalister. My name is Aya Redmond.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone is curious and reads my fanfiction - this is what inspired me to write release the dogs of war


	4. vehicle of the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's pretty dark so take warning
> 
> lots of weird moral dilemmas and such

She wakes up in the morning, and her first thought is  _ rage.  _

She slings her pack over her shoulders, made all the heavier by the  _ grudge  _ resting alongside her belongings. 

She breathes in the crisp, clear morning area, hears the sounds of the world around her, and breathes out anger like a toxin. She is a machine which marches night and day, no rest and no stopping, and her fuel is her  _ fury.  _

Her father used to tell her differently. Her father used to say that being blinded by anger is worse than being blind, but then again, he’s dead. Sometimes she imagines his voice next to her, like a song piercing through a hazy fog, but when she looks there’s nobody. 

Sometimes she imagines she hears her mother, too. Her mother used to point out every flower by the roadside, knew each one by name. “They’re all so beautiful.” She used to say. “Just look at them all, they’re so beautiful, just like you.” But then again, she’s dead too. 

There is no one to tell her what is what. 

So she marches. She marches by towns that burn, towns that burned, accompanied by the ghosts of the dead. It’s like there’s a sign over her head, a miasma that warns off passers-by, because no one ever bothers her. No one dares to interfere with the machine which leaves the imprints of grief in every footprint she puts on the dirt path. 

Well, some do. Some try. Children with broken bodies, strewn across the path and left to die. Not because their parents didn’t love them, but because their parents were no longer able to care for them. Men and women with arms torn off, legs dismembered, used and discarded products of war no longer worth anything to their dictator. 

Their requests are the same, every time.  _ Water,  _ they beg, their voices rasping like unfiled iron,  _ food, please, anything. Anything.  _

She marches onward. She doesn’t even see them. She’s walking on a different path than they are. She’s got the imprint of the word  _ revenge  _ on her heart and walking shoes which don’t quite reach the ground. There’s nothing she can do for them. 

(Sometimes she dreams. Sometimes she dreams of a village untouched, of a happy family with shrieking children who want for nothing. She dreams of food so tender that it melts in the mouth, of warm beds and wind that smells of nothing but the rich undergrowth.

But she has to wake up. She always up, and the cycle begins anew.)

So she marches, and marches. Her fuel is never ending; there is no measurement in the world which could quantify her anger. She is like a wind-up toy which never stops, never needs rest. Her parents used to say that it was okay to take a break, okay to stop by the roadside and count the ants on the ground or the stars in the sky, but then again, they’re dead. 

And one day, she reaches his castle. She has been marching so long, she almost misses it; she wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the acrid smoke which hangs above the turrets, and the skulls which sit casually on angled pikes. It used to be distinctive; now it is only disgusting. Grime crawls through and around ash-grey pillars; stones which used to shape the front gate sit in disarray around her. 

She enters, her miasma trailing behind her like a shroud.  _ Grief,  _ her footsteps cry. 

When she enters the main chamber, he is seated in his chair. His steel-grey hair sits limply under his crown, his mint-green eyes dark and weary as he watches her. He is as the castle is; once a great relic of the past, now reduced to nothing but an old miser. 

She wishes she could say she is pleased, seeing him like this. She wishes she could say she was disappointed. As it is, she does not feel anything. 

But she has rehearsed the words in her head a thousand times, a million times. She knows exactly what to say. 

“You killed my family. You ripped my sister from my arms. You tore my mother and father apart like they were animals.” She tells him. 

“I have come to have you answer for the crimes against my family.” She tells him. 

“I have come to kill you.” She tells him. 

He looks at her now, a spark of interest in his eyes. She has imagined this part too, many times. More times than she can count. In her mind, he was fat and arrogant, and his wails of protest echoed through the countryside right up until her knife entered the space underneath his breast. But right now, he looks thin, and tired. He looks like she feels, a machine on its last legs. 

“I’ve been expecting you.” He says to her. He shifts, every movement stiff and slow, like he weighs a thousand pounds. “You’re late.”

She hesitates. Just for a second. 

“What village?” He continues into the silence. “I have killed so many families, after all. One forgets.”

She thinks about it for a second. “Does it matter? You said you have killed many families. Shouldn’t you answer for your crimes against all of them?” 

“And what will you do after I am dead?” He leans forward, folds his spindly fingers over his knees. 

She frowns at him, dark and deep, her hands flexing at her sides. She doesn’t like this--his probing questions, his casual calm. No one has asked her such things in years; no one has drawn her from her stupor long enough to try.

“Does it matter?” She asks again, agitated now. “You will answer for your crimes against my family. You will not care. You will be dead.”

“It does matter.” He tells her. “It matters more than you think.”

_ I have heard the voices of my parents in my head ever since you killed them.  _ “I know better than most that the dead no longer get an opinion.” She says instead. 

“If the dead no longer have an opinion,” He says, “Then why do you let them control you?”

She says nothing, just stares. Uncertain. 

“You say you have come so that I can answer for the crimes done against your family. What family, then?” He leans forward. She is far, far away from him, but she can almost smell the decay on his breath, hear the rattle in his bones. “They no longer matter, do they?

“You wanted me to answer for my crimes against your family. Fine. I admit it. I killed your family, and your friends’ family, and every other family you have ever known. But they are dead.” He bears his teeth in a facsimile of a wide, yellow grin. “Does it matter?”

She breathes out.  _ Anger.  _ Revenge beats steadily above her heart. 

“They mattered.” She whispers, bowing her head. “They mattered to me.”

“So there is the truth.” He says, sounding satisfied. His clothes creak as he leans back in his chair. “You say that what happens to you after I am dead does not matter, that the dead do not matter. Yet it seems to  _ me  _ that you only care about the  _ dead. _ ”

She looks up, narrows her eyes at him. His finery is old and faded, the rings on his fingers rusted through. She wonders why everything is so different from what she imagined it would be. “Why are you saying these things to me?”

He lets the silence reign, for just a moment. He is thinking, bony knuckles twisting in his lap, eyes distant and ancient.

“Because I too was once obsessed with the dead.” He says. 

“Because I too carried my rage and hate with every step that I took.” He says. 

“Because I was never asked what would happen  _ after.  _ After I had killed the people I wanted to kill, after I had been victorious in my crusade.” He sneers on the last word, like a curse. “No one ever tells you that you can’t live forever as a machine of revenge. One day, the fuel runs out.” He gestures toward the crumbling castle around him. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

She sneers at him. “You’re a monster. I am nothing like you.”

“Are you not?” He asks. “How many of the living did you pass by on your way to kill me? How many could you have saved?”

She opens her mouth to say,  _ it doesn’t matter.  _ She opens her mouth to tell him,  _ they are already dead,  _ but then she stops. Because no, they are not already dead. Or, they were not dead when she saw them. 

They stare at each other. She does not know what to say. Her arms slump to her sides. 

“My death is assured.” He tells her. “I have done my crimes. I accept my punishment. But before that happens, you must ask yourself.” He points right at her, at her heart. She flinches away. 

“What comes after?” 

Ten minutes later, she walks from the building. Her pack feels no lighter; her shoulders are still weighed down by more than just her bag. Her footsteps still ring  _ grief  _ with every step. 

But for the first time, she does not feel like a machine. For the first time, there is something other than  _ revenge  _ on her heart and  _ fury  _ in her soul. She looks to the side of the road, and spots a flower growing from the blackened earth. 

_ Daisy,  _ her mind tells her. Her mother is silent

Too long she has been focused on revenge for the dead; her ledger is redder than she ever could’ve imagined. Now, she must find a way to bring justice to the living. 

She cleans the blood off her knife, and marches onward. 


End file.
